


Snowed In

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sherlock does not beat around the bush, Smut, Snowed In, but also a little plot, these things happen when you're snowed in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John & Sherlock are snowed in. Sherlock is determined to take advantage of the opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowed In

John jerked out of a deep sleep with the echoes of Sherlock’s anguished howl still ringing through the flat. He was out of bed and halfway down the stairs before he could form a conscious thought, let alone stop to put on proper trousers--that sort of high-decibel agony could mean nothing good.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Christ, are you alright?” he demanded, as he skidded into the sitting room. Sherlock was knelt in front of the window, half-draped over the sill, with his head resting on his arms, as if he’d simply dropped where he stood. The pale light that filtered in through the window did little to illuminate the room, and Sherlock’s face was still hidden in shadow. John hurried over, flipping on a light as he went, just to make sure he was still conscious.

He was, and he made a noise of irritated dissatisfaction on John's approach, and waved a lazy hand at the window. John stood beside him to peer outside.

Snow blanketed the streets, the sort of snow London hadn’t seen in years, the sort of snow that made newscasters resort to hyperbole about "once in a century weather events." It billowed and drifted over cars and kerbs, transforming the entire landscape into a gently rippling sea of white. It had obviously been falling all night, and showed no signs of slowing. When the sun finally came out, the glow would be blinding, but for now the world was painted in the soft monochrome of a Whistler painting, all smoky grays and cloudy whites. 

“Look at the _snow_ , John,” Sherlock moaned despondently at his side. “Isn’t it _hideous_?”

“Not really the word I’d use, no,” John said. This, apparently, was the cause of Sherlock’s agony and the reason John was no longer enjoying his lie-in (which had been made _that much better_ by the snow outside, keeping the cars off the streets and muffling the noise of London to nearly nothing).

“We’re _snowed in_ ,” Sherlock continued, in the same despairing tones. “No cases, no takeaway--we could be trapped in here for _days_. I am not certain I can be held responsible for my actions should these conditions persist for longer than a few hours.” He dragged himself upright with the air of a deeply persecuted man.

“Oh, I’m certain Mrs. Hudson will hold you responsible,” John said, shivering a little. The windows were poorly insulated, and in his haste to reach Sherlock’s side, he’d neglected both dressing gown and slippers. Sherlock, of course, was in his lounging uniform of cotton pajama pants, well-worn t-shirt, and blue satin dressing gown, and appeared as impervious to the cold as he was to the heat. His only concession to the chilly wood floors was a pair of black socks (inside out, John couldn't help but notice). The whole ensemble was nearly as alluring, somehow, as the suits he donned like battle armor outside the flat, albeit in an entirely different way. Something about the otherwise-fastidious Sherlock in a state of such casual deshabille was-- well. John tried not to dwell on it, but mornings like this made it damn hard. It wasn’t just the way the fabric moved over the curves and angles of his body--it was the quiet trust it revealed. Sherlock in his dressing gown, curled up and sulking on the sofa, was an entirely different creature than Sherlock in Spencer Hart, commanding a crime scene with one raised eyebrow and a stream of confident deductions. This Sherlock--dressing-gown Sherlock, stockinged-feet Sherlock--was the one only a few people got to see. This was the Sherlock that John stitched and bandaged, cajoled into eating, drank tea and watched telly with, and it was becoming increasingly hard not to think of this Sherlock as _his_ Sherlock. Even if that was absurd, even if Sherlock’s firm “I’m flattered by your interest, but…” still rang in his ears. 

He shook himself mentally. Sherlock was on the verge of an epic strop; best to focus on that, and not the way the hem of his thin shirt had ridden up just a little, revealing one pale hip bone dotted with a small constellation of freckles. John crossed his arms over his chest, forced himself to look back out the window. “Anyway,” he continued. “You routinely spend entire days stretched out on that couch without moving, doing your mind palace thing. Consider this another opportunity.” 

Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t need to spend time in my mind palace, everything is quite well-organized at the moment. My desiccation experiment is looking after itself right now, the mold cultures are coming along nicely, and I don’t have the proper supplies for my next--oh. Hmm.” He cut himself off and narrowed his eyes at John.

John tried not to squirm under Sherlock’s raking silver stare. He desperately hoped his earlier meditation on Sherlock’s arse in that dressing gown wasn’t too obvious, not in his face and not in...other places. He really should have put on better trousers before he came downstairs, potential emergency or no.

“Take off your pajama bottoms and pants,” Sherlock said finally, in a tone of such confident authority that John’s hands were at his waistband before the words fully registered.

“ _What_?”

“And your shirt, too, if you like. It’s not necessary, though, and you do look cold.”

“Sherlock, I don’t care how bored you are--and you can’t be that bored; you've only just realized we're snowed in--I am not stripping naked for some weird experiment.”

Sherlock let out a gusty sigh. “I don’t want to perform an experiment on you. I want to fellate you.”

John blinked slowly, several times, and forced himself to count to ten. It didn’t help. “What?” he said again. John was not some teenager; there was no reason those clinical words, in that matter-of-fact tone, should affect him like that, but God help him, he was halfway to hard already.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I said I want to fellate you. To ‘suck your cock,’ if you must be crude about it.”

 _Jesus_. “Yeah, I, uh. I heard that part. Yes. Um, why?”

 _Christ, Watson_ , his hind brain screamed. _You’ve got the most gorgeous man in London offering--right out of the blue--to get on his knees for you, and you’re stopping to ask questions_?

“Because _I_ want to, and _you_ want to, and we’re going to be trapped in this flat for _days_ , so we might as well make the most of it."

Somehow, despite the precipitous southward rush of his blood, John managed to retain enough brainpower to process the three most important words in Sherlock’s statement. “You want to?” he asked shakily. His entire world, it seemed, was rearranging itself before his eyes, taking shapes he’d never dared to hope for. The least he could do was make sure he was hearing things correctly.

“Yes. Sex is a distraction I usually prefer to avoid, but… sometimes abstinence is even more distracting. And not having you in my bed when I know we both want it is _terribly_ distracting.” Sherlock had been moving closer to John the entire time he’d been speaking and now, suddenly, he was impossibly close--not actually touching, but near enough that John could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the flecks of green and blue in those mesmerizing eyes. “So please, John,” Sherlock continued, in a low voice that sent liquid fire racing through John’s veins. “Let me touch you.”

It was the "please" that undid him, finally. Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, did not say please. In his more conciliatory moods, he demanded. Otherwise, he simply _did_ , and assumed the fallout would deal with itself. To hear that word pass his lips, and in that tone--well, it would take a stronger man than John to refuse him, even if he’d wanted to.

“Yes,” John said, his voice cracking just a little. He swallowed, tried again. “Yes, okay.”

Sherlock closed the distance between them almost before the words had passed John’s lips, capturing his mouth in an urgent kiss. His lips were sweeter than John had expected, sweeter and hotter and softer, and John couldn’t help but fist his hands in the lapels of Sherlock’s dressing gown as he pressed up into the kiss. He didn't even try to suppress the ragged moan that escaped him as Sherlock slid his hands down his back to cup his arse and pull him hard against his body, letting him feel the hard length of his erection against his stomach. He had wanted this too badly, and for too long, to hold back now. John dropped his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, kissing his way down the pale, freckle-studded column of his throat before pushing the dressing gown off his shoulders and dragging his teeth gently over his collarbone, relishing Sherlock's answering shudder.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice noticeably shakier than it had been only a few minutes before. “You’re wearing too many clothes.” His hands fumbled at the waistband of John’s pajamas, until he finally pushed them down, pants and all, and nudged John into the chair behind him.

John gasped at the rush of cool air against hot flesh, and gasped again as Sherlock dropped to his knees between John’s thighs (impossibly, unfairly graceful, as always) and bent his head to lick a long, slow stripe along the length of John’s aching erection, his eyes never leaving John’s. Inasmuch as he’d allowed himself to contemplate such things, John had expected Sherlock to approach sex as he did everything else: decisively, and with an eye toward maximum efficiency. And he _was_ decisive, certainly, but now that he’d gotten John’s pants off, he had apparently decided to take his time. After that first lick, he focused his attention everywhere but John’s cock, smearing gentle, open-mouthed kisses along John’s inner thighs, nuzzling into the sandy thatch of hair at his groin, slipping a hand under his shirt to rub a thumb across one nipple. John arched into his touch, desperate for more, for Sherlock’s mouth, for his hands, for as much of him as he could possibly have and as long as he could possibly have him.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock,” John said, at the scrape of Sherlock’s teeth across his hip bone. Sherlock looked up at him through dark lashes and licked his lips slowly, deliberately. “Jesus,” John repeated, dropping his head back to rest against the chair.

“All right?” Sherlock asked, his voice gone deep and chocolatey-smooth in a way that seemed expressly designed to burn through John’s reserves like wildfire.

John raised his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re probably going to kill me,” he said. “Don’t stop.”

One side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in that half-smile, half-smirk that set John’s heart to stuttering every time. “Well, then,” he said softly, and took John into his mouth in one hot slick slide of lips and tongue and _oh_ \--

John tried desperately to keep his eyes open, to keep his gaze fixed on Sherlock as he worked his cock with clever hands and teasing mouth, because otherwise he wasn’t sure he would ever believe this had happened, not without the evidence of his own eyes to back him up. He’d barely dared to fantasize about this, believing it better to force down the attraction he was sure would never be reciprocated, and now here he was in the sitting room with Sherlock’s head between his thighs and Sherlock’s long fingers spread across his hips.

It was too much. John let his head fall back against the chair on a shaky exhale and curled his hands into fists to keep himself from tangling them through Sherlock’s dark curls. (Now even more mussed than before and tumbling wildly around his ears to just tickle the bare, sensitive skin of John’s thighs.)

He wasn’t going to last. Too much sensation, too many long-repressed fantasies impossibly coming true at once. Sherlock slid his hands under John’s arse to change the angle, take him a little deeper, and suddenly he was _there_. “Fuck, Sherlock, I’m-- _fuck_ ,” he gasped, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulder to try to warn him. Sherlock just hummed around him, swallowed him a little deeper, and held him there while he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

When John finally opened his eyes and lifted his head, Sherlock was sitting back on his heels with his own pants pulled down just enough to free his erection. He stroked himself slowly, watching John through heavy-lidded eyes. The sight of him kneeling there, hard and sex-rumpled, with his pupils blown wide and his chest heaving just a little, sent a bolt of something he couldn’t quite identify through John’s chest. _Lust_ didn’t cover it, and neither did _affection_. This was more than simple desire, more than affection, more, possibly, than John could put words to. Certainly more than he’d ever expected to find when he’d limped into the basement of St. Bart’s with a cane and a bad shoulder and an army pension.

John leaned forward and hooked a hand around Sherlock’s elbow, pulling him forward and kissing him hard. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, needy and breathless, and John could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue. He finally gave into the desire to tangle his fingers through Sherlock’s wild hair, caught Sherlock’s plush lower lip between his teeth, reveled in the soft desperate sounds Sherlock was making. The fact that John had just come--harder than he had in years--didn’t seem to dampen his desire in the least, not with Sherlock in front of him, hard and flushed and sweat-damp, wanting _him_. John broke the kiss with a whimper and rested his forehead briefly against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his air of cool hauteur diminished just a little by his panting. “So?” he said. “Are you satisfied that this isn’t one of my, quote, ‘weird experiments’?”

“Mmmm, perhaps,” John said, not even bothering to bite back his smile. He pushed himself to his feet, kicking his discarded pants the rest of the way off. “But maybe you’d like to continue convincing me in your bedroom? With fewer clothes on? I have a few, ah, non-experiments of my own that I’d like to run. I hope you don’t have anywhere to be today."

  
Sherlock chuckled, dark and deep, and stood to follow John. “Apparently not. I’ve heard there’s a blizzard on.”

**Author's Note:**

> For Let's Write Sherlock's Winter Ficlet Challenge, prompt: "snowed in." I... did not expect this to go the direction it did (for starters, I thought I was going to answer all the prompts with 221Bs), but once Sherlock opened his mouth I suppose it was inevitable.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, Alter and madrona629, for tweaking, prodding, kind words, and assurances that I do still remember how pronouns work.


End file.
